


Second Time

by lamardeuse



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-28
Updated: 2010-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 05:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney knew everything was going to hell when they started playing the Duran Duran music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for SGA Flashfiction on Livejournal (school challenge).

Rodney knew everything was going to hell when they started playing the Duran Duran music.

He’d really had high hopes for this party, too. First of all, it was the first honest to God party he’d been invited to, which when you considered that he was two years younger than his classmates wasn’t completely…well, odd. And by ‘honest to God’ he meant, of course, ‘not hosted by a member of his Dungeons and Dragons club’, but by an actual girl who actually seemed to be interested in him. In a female, possibly sexual way.

Rodney was fifteen, less than a month from sixteen: thoughts about sex were starting to occupy much more of his cerebral cortex than was advisable if he wanted to maintain his marks at the level he’d need for that scholarship to MIT. The first day Sarah Montrose had smiled at him six weeks ago, he’d completely forgotten how to compute second degree derivatives. He was going to have to at least get to touch a girl soon, or his entire brain was in danger of liquefying from the buildup of excess frustration and hormones.

Luckily, Sarah was a wonderful girl, beautiful and popular and actually intelligent, in a non-extraordinary way, of course, but if Rodney was going to wait for a mind to match his own he’d be beating off to his father’s old Playboys until he turned forty. And so when she’d invited him to her birthday party – an event that conflicted with his Reach for the Top strategy meeting – he’d jumped at the opportunity. She’d smiled radiantly and possibly flirted with him in the hallway when she’d asked him, and his IQ had easily slipped another four and a half points.

And now he was watching her making out with Dave Whittaker, a seventeen-year-old C student with a brain the size of a proton, and really, he should just go up to the kitchen right now and whack it off with a Ginsu knife, because a) at this rate he was never going to need it, and b) it would be a loss to the whole world if his brain liquefied, but his dick would only be a loss to him.

By the time he’d climbed the stairs he’d discarded his plan, but he decided to stop by the kitchen on his way out anyway, because the last time he’d checked there’d been a fair amount of cake left and goddammit, he might as well get something out of this disastrous night. He strode into the brightly lit room with all the righteous fervour of the vaguely wronged and stopped short when he found a skinny ass poking out of the fridge.

Well, skinny was perhaps too harsh, Rodney’s hormones admonished him; after all, an ass was an ass, and there was no point in being choosy when you had just contemplated emasculation via a K-Tel product. Because really, who needed calculus when there were asses like that poking out of fridges, just waiting to be…

_Dear Lord_, Rodney thought, _kill me now, because my brain is unsalvageable. _

The person attached to the ass straightened and turned, and Rodney flushed when he realized he’d just been ogling Sarah’s very attractive – and very _male_ – cousin. They’d been introduced, but Rodney had been so intent on Sarah that his only impression had been of a black shock of hair, a full-lipped smirk and a gaze that said your every secret was written across your forehead in a language only he could read. It was annoying as hell and made parts of Rodney’s body itch, and so he’d put the boy from his mind as quickly as possible.

When – oh, what was his name? – saw Rodney, he smiled lazily, and Rodney fought the urge to run, because that meant the look wasn’t far behind, and Rodney was not in the mood to be read so easily and thoroughly.

“Hey,” what’s-his-name said. He held up a bottle. “Want a beer?”

“Hell yes,” Rodney said, lurching forward to take the Labatt’s 50 from – oh, yes, _John’s_ – grasp. What were a few thousand more brain cells now?

“You’re Rodney, right?” John said, reaching for a second beer and deftly shucking the cap with the bottle opener attached to the wall over the garbage can.

Rodney nodded, too busy swallowing beer to answer aloud.

John leaned back against the counter. “Sarah says you’re the smartest guy in school.”

Rodney tensed at the mention of his lost love. “Well. She’s right. And I would include the teachers in that survey.”

John stared at him for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Geez, you don’t lack for balls, do you?”

At the mention of ‘balls’ Rodney’s gaze immediately dipped to John’s jeans, which even he knew was a faux pas of epic proportions, but dammit, he was overwrought, and, and…

…wow. John’s jeans weren’t that tight, but Rodney could still see the outline of something…his something. To give it a name would be acknowledging that he was looking, which he was definitely not, no—

“Rodney.”

Rodney winced, anticipating the blow. John wasn’t a big guy, but he was American and Sarah had mentioned he played football so it would still probably hurt a great deal. He briefly wondered if telling John he had a low threshold of pain would make him more or less merciful.

Reluctantly, Rodney dragged his gaze upward, but instead of disgust and anger, he was shocked to see that half-amused, knowing smirk on John’s face. Rodney felt his face grow hot as he realized what John was thinking, because yes, he’d given him every impression that he was, but he _wasn’t_—

John pulled open a drawer and rummaged around until he found another bottle opener, then turned and removed another couple of beers from the fridge. Rodney’s hormones weighed in with another profound opinion on the subject of John’s ass, something along the lines of _touch it touch it touchitnow._

John walked to the doorway of the kitchen, then turned and gave Rodney a questioning look from under his eyelashes. “Well, come on, genius,” he said, and Rodney should have protested, he should have grabbed his cake and run like hell, he should have taken that Ginsu knife and carried out his plan, but his dick had now staged a coup and his once-formidable intellect was being held in a small, windowless cell without even the hope of intervention from Amnesty International. With all the joy of a condemned prisoner facing execution, Rodney climbed the stairs behind John, his gaze bonded to John’s ass by the Crazy Glue of puberty.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

John was visiting with Sarah and her family for what he called “spring break”, and he’d been given Sarah’s brother’s old room. Sarah’s brother was in his second year of Journalism at Carleton, and since his marks weren’t all that hot, his parents had taken back his thirteen-inch black and white TV. This worked out well for John and Rodney, because the Leafs were playing the Black Hawks, and John asked for and received a lesson in the finer points of the game. By the end of the second period, John was yelling along with Rodney, cursing out the Chicago ref and cheering when Vaive scored on a power play.

They sat propped up against the quilted vinyl headboard, arms touching because the bed was narrow and because once they had brushed against one another the first time Rodney did it a couple of more times on purpose, and John had reciprocated, and now they were pressed together from shoulder to elbow, and Rodney was proud of himself for being so cool about the fact that he was hard enough to pound nails just from touching another guy’s arm.

The siren blared, signaling the end of the second period, and John said abruptly, “How old are you, anyway?”

“Fifteen,” Rodney said. He felt John stiffen at that and hastily added, “Going on sixteen. In, um, about twenty days.”

Rodney could practically hear John smirking at him. “I’m sixteen going on seventeen. Hey, that’s like that song, isn’t it?” Rodney felt John shift; the delicious pressure on his arm disappeared, and then he realized John had turned toward him, was facing him, his face was about six inches from Rodney’s and all Rodney had to do was turn his head—

“So tell me, Rodney,” John drawled, “are you as innocent as a rose?”

In an attempt to hide the fact that every hormone in his body had just launched a nuclear strike at Rodney’s brain, Rodney stammered, “Sh-should you really know that much about show tunes?”

“Songs from the _Sound of Music_ don’t count as show tunes,” John told him. “They play it on TV every Christmas.” He paused, smiling slightly. “Though I like _South Pacific_ a lot. Should I be worried?”

Rodney couldn’t think of an answer to that, because he really didn’t give a shit anymore. John could have stripped him down, rolled him in flour and paddled his ass with a hockey stick and he’d probably come all over himself. Instead he turned and stared at John, watched all that smug, knowing Americanness come closer, leaning in until he could feel the waft of John’s breath, the mild beer scent of it and the heat and ohgodohgodohgod—

Right before John’s lips touched his, Rodney stuck out his own in what he imagined was a good starting position. He felt the fleeting touch of John’s mouth before it was gone.

Opening his eyes, he saw John watching him again with that lacerating gaze. Oh, God, he’d done it wrong, he was hopeless, he was going to die an old man with a Nobel prize and a dick that no one had touched but him.

And then John’s thumb smoothed over Rodney’s puckered lips, and Rodney felt that gentle touch all the way from his cock to his heart and back again.

“Rodney,” John whispered. “_Relax_.”

Obediently, Rodney’s lips parted instantly, and the rough-soft drag of the pad of John’s thumb over that sensitized skin was enough to force a weak moan from Rodney’s throat. John grinned at that, completely without guile for once, and nodded.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said approvingly, replacing his thumb with his mouth.

And oh, this wasn’t what Rodney had been expecting at all. Soft, tugging pulls to Rodney’s lower lip, ticklish glide of a tongue-tip to his upper lip, scrape of teeth against his chin until he thought he’d go crazy with the tantalizing tease of it. Only somehow he could tell John wasn’t teasing, he wasn’t doing this out of malice, because with every touch Rodney felt more relaxed, more safe, more…_cherished_, of all the ridiculous things.

Tentatively, he took a hand and slid it up John’s chest until he was cupping John’s shoulder. John seemed to approve, because he tilted his head and pressed his tongue inside Rodney’s mouth, a sweet, gentle invasion that Rodney did his best to welcome.

John’s own hand palmed Rodney’s hip, then wriggled under Rodney’s turtleneck and began working its way upward. When John’s fingertips brushed over a nipple, Rodney jerked convulsively.

Oh, God. How could he have reached almost sixteen without discovering they could do _that_?

He could feel John’s grin against his lips. “You like that, huh?”

That didn’t even deserve an answer, so Rodney only shoved his chest against John’s hand and leaned in to bite John’s chin.

“Hey!” John pulled back and Rodney’s gut churned, but then he looked up and saw that John’s eyes had darkened so much he could barely see the irises.

“You like that, huh?” Rodney shot back, completely divorced from his own boldness, as though the words were coming from someone else entirely.

And then John flicked Rodney’s nipple with a fingernail and Rodney gasped, shook and came inside his jeans, his hand clutching at John’s shoulder, his eyes wide and startled.

John leaned in and covered Rodney’s mouth with his own, and Rodney arched up to meet him, licking and biting at every part of John he could reach, trying not to be sloppy about it but probably failing. John didn’t seem to mind, though, because he kissed him for a long time before pulling back and smiling at him openly.

But Rodney’s euphoria was rapidly fading because he realized he had just come like – well, like a horny adolescent – and John hadn’t. He gestured feebly in the general direction of John’s crotch, where the bulge Rodney had noticed earlier was decidedly more prominent.

“What do you – what would you—” Oh, that was just _awful._

John shook his head, jaw clenching. “You don’t have to do anything,” John said, and Rodney stared at him, because for a teenage boy to have that much self-control was just not natural.

“Don’t be stupid,” Rodney snapped. Without giving himself time to think about what he was doing, he pushed at John’s shoulder, threw a leg over his thighs and reached for the button on John’s jeans. “If you don’t think I can do this, just say so, but I think you should at least give me a chance to try. I mean, I know I’m not exactly Rudolf Valentino, but I think I can manage to – oh—”

He trailed off because somewhere in the middle of the babbling he’d gotten John’s fly open, and now John was looking up at him with black, pleading eyes and Rodney realized his hand was pressing hard against the front of John’s boxers, molding to the heated shape it found there.

Rodney sucked in a breath when he recognized those feelings he’d had earlier, only now they were directed at the boy who lay at his mercy, flushed and panting under his hand.

“I can—” Rodney said between the soft, gentle kisses he rained down on John’s upturned face, “—do this, just tell me what to, what you like, I can—”

“This,” John gasped between the same kisses, “this, just this, Rodney, oh God, _Rodney_.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Rodney recognized John Sheppard the instant he saw him in Antarctica; even though over twenty years had passed, John still bore a remarkable resemblance to his sixteen-year-old self. Rodney, however, had filled out quite a bit in the intervening time – and lost about a pound and a half of hair – so he couldn’t imagine John would have recognized him even on the off chance he remembered the encounter.

They’d missed the entire third period, the appeal of the Leafs dimming before the delights of getting naked and sweaty. The second time Rodney came was a lot more spectacular than the first, because this time John had Rodney’s cock in his mouth, and Rodney lasted exactly ninety seconds after the first tentative suck, but who really cared?

The third time had been John’s second as well, Rodney’s palms filled with John’s skinny but quite muscular ass while John ground his erection helplessly against Rodney’s hip. When Rodney felt John go lax in his arms, he’d kissed him and hauled him so close he’d felt like they’d fused into one another, and that had been enough to send him over one last time.

Rodney was surprised – and somewhat depressed – to realize he still remembered every second of that night with crystal clarity, especially when John never gave any indication that he knew who Rodney was, that he knew he’d changed Rodney’s entire goddamned life in the space of three orgasms and a couple of periods of hockey. He got over it quickly enough when they went through the wormhole and discovered unimaginable wonders and horrors in the same day, but now and then the memory would nag at him, tug at his subconscious the way John’s young, soft lips had pulled at his own.

And then eight months later when John came a hairsbreadth from sacrificing himself for the greater good, Rodney decided he’d had enough, and as soon as they’d been told to stand down Rodney followed John to his quarters and shoved him against a wall and kissed him until the hard line that John’s mouth had become softened beneath his.

Blindly, he reached for the zippers on John’s vest and began freeing him, desperate to reach skin as quickly as he could. His patience gave out halfway to his objective, though, and he slid a palm up under John’s black t-shirt, grazing a nipple and reveling in John’s sharp gasp.

“You like that, huh?” Rodney asked, smiling, and John’s eyes flew open.

“God,” he breathed, looking at Rodney like he was a stranger, “it _was_ you.”

Rodney froze, suspended weightless somewhere between fifteen and thirty-six. “It was me,” he admitted, heart stuttering at the thought that John remembered, he _remembered_.

“I wasn’t sure,” John said. “You’re not – I mean—”

“Yes, well, I was sure,” Rodney said shortly. “You don’t forget your first time.” Oh God, had he actually just said that?

“Yeah,” John drawled, gaze cutting with the precision of a laser, “I know.”

Rodney stared at him. “You – you couldn’t—” he spluttered, removing his hand from under John’s shirt and gesturing at him. “I mean, you were sixteen and you were, you were _beautiful_, how is that even—”

“I went to high school on a military base, Rodney,” John murmured.

“Oh. Yes. Okay,” Rodney said, nodding. Of course, that explained it; he’d been John’s Big Gay Canadian Fling, nothing special, just a way to pop the ol’ cherry—

Then John brushed his thumb over Rodney’s mouth and said, “Rodney. _Relax. _”

And much to Rodney’s astonishment, he did just that. And later, when he lay with his body wrapped so tightly around John's they seemed like one being, he decided he was glad he'd said no to the Ginsu knife all those years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks to the lovely micehell for the quick trip through Google - as it turns out, Ginsu knives were not manufactured by K-Tel, but by a company called Dial Media. Ah, the memory, she fades after so many years. But yet, I remembered the tin can and the tomato! Such a masterpiece of advertising deserves proper credit. I let it stand in the story, though, because if I got it wrong (and I'm the same age, essentially, as Rodney), so might he. And thanks to history_gurl for the correction about Maple Leafs players. I have fixed. (Canadiens fan here! *g*)
> 
> First published November 2005.


End file.
